When zuzula came to town and suggested a drink, I was a little worried with her Marsha-esque tendencies towards glasses and glasses of white wine. Especially combined with my seeming inability to drink any more than a weak thumbful of bitter before falling down on my face.

Fortunately, I seemed to have passed the drinking test with aplomb, and I said goodnight to her without having once fallen asleep, heaved or otherwise shown other signs of drink going too far. Aside from looking at the allegedly handsome half-Chinese barman and wishing I was him and half his cockiness. Knowing it’s all fake and put-on – much like the cocktail bar we were at – doesn’t really help.

However, the next morning. Oh god, the next morning. My head felt like it had gained about 50 lbs. I’d had a doctors’ appointment for something else so trying to explain why my leg shouldn’t be amputated was made that bit more tricky.

And the symptoms still carried on when I got home. Trying to cook, I managed to burn half a plastic rice spoon before the smell of noxious burning plastic finally reached my alcohol-diseased nostrils.

The only saving grace is that zuzula felt the same. And thus, my pride in my drinking abilities is restored.